


Oliveander's

by PancakeGoth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comedy, Olives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 23:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11931660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PancakeGoth/pseuds/PancakeGoth
Summary: The magical wizarding world of Harry Potter, where the olive reigns king. This started as a joke with my friend and turned into a short story, please enjoy





	Oliveander's

They stopped at a curious shop in Diagon Alley, and the pungent scent of brine wafted through Harry's nostrils.  
"Haggis, what is this place?" he asked his hairy companion.  
"Ah, Harry," he chuckled, "this is Oliveander's, home of the finest-crafted olives in the wizarding world. Shame ye've never heard of it; ye've never seen an olive until you've seen one at Oliveander's. We need to get you one for Hogwarts!" He pushed through the front door with one giant, meaty paw and beckoned Harry in. 

The interior was narrow, and fragrant with the olives of various different countries, and light filtered in through the high, dusty windows to illuminate thousands of jars stacked with careful precision on shelves that went all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. There was nothing else in there, except for a spindly chair tucked into a corner.

There was a rustling between the stacks, and a rumpled-looking old man with bulbous light blue eyes popped out to greet them.  
"Good afternoon," his voice wafted through the stale air. "Ah, I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Harry Potter," he said. "You have your mother's eyes. Olive green. Seems like only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first olive. Seven eighths of an inch long, juicy, picked in the Middle East. Great olive for charm work." Oliveander moved closer to Harry. He wished he would blink. His pale eyes were kind of creepy. "Your father on the other hand preferred a kalamata olive, firm, tangy. From the Mediterranean. A little more power and great for transfiguration. I say your father favoured it, well, the olive chooses the wizard, you know." The man's silvery eyes lingered on Harry's forehead. "I'm afraid I sold the olive that did it," he said softly, regretfully. "Spicy, an inch and a half long, with a pimento core. Powerful olive, very powerful. And in the wrong hands..." He trailed off, and spotted Haggis, to Harry's relief. "Rubeus!! Rubeus Haggis! How nice to see you again. Green, salty, filled with cheese, correct? Good olive, that one. But I suppose they tore it up when you got expelled?" Haggis shifted uncomfortably.  
"Yes sir," he shuffled his feet, "but I've still got the pieces though!" He said brightly, clutching a suspiciously moist part of his overcoat.  
"Hmm," hummed Oliveander. "Well now Mr. Potter, let me see." He pulled out a measuring tape marked with silver. "Which is your olive arm?"  
"Er, I'm right-handed?" Harry replied.  
"That's it, hold your olive arm out."  
Oliveander measured Harry from shoulder to wrist, foot to armpit, and elbow to fingertip. "Every Oliveander olive has a core of a powerful magical substance," he explained, "We use peppers, cheese, and garlic, the three most powerful ingredients in the world. No two olives are the same, and you won't get as good of results with another wizard's olive." As he spoke, Oliveander was flitting between the stacks of jars, searching for one. "Here, let's try this. Mild, spongey, filled with herbed garlic. A masterpiece from North Africa." Harry took the olive and waved it around a bit before it was snatched from his hands and returned to the jar. "How about this one, niçoise, sour, with goat cheese. French, very stinky." Harry had barely lifted it before it was taken back. "No... Try this, cerignola, slightly sweet, meaty texture. Aged five years. Go on, go on, try it out." Harry tried, and tried. He didn't know what Mr. Oliveander was looking for, and the discarded hard were piling up higher and higher. "Tricky customer eh? Well, how about this one, unlikely combination, black, spicy pimento, extra briny. Nice and supple. A rare cultivar from South America." Harry raised the olive above his head and felt a salty, savoury eruption in his loins. The universe flashed before his eyes, and he was filled with the calm knowledge that all was olive, that olives are good. Fuck anchovies. As he brought it down, it erupted in gold and red sparks. "Bravo, very good! Ah, but curious, how very curious... I remember every olive I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. It's curious that you would be destined to be chosen by that olive... When it's brother gave you THAT SCAR. The spicy pepper that resides in your olive only contributed to one other olive, just one other. Curious how this would happen, the olive chooses the wizard, don't you know. I expect great things from you, Mr. Potter. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things after all... Terrible, but great." Harry wasn't sure he liked Mr. Oliveander, but the moist, round, powerful artifact in his hand sent warm vibrations up his arm. He felt the weight of history's delicious, pickled presence weighing upon his shoulders. He paid Oliveanders for the olive and, with Haggis in tow, returned to the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, forever changed.


End file.
